


Mike Townsend, Season 7 Day 15.

by whatCD



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26480194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatCD/pseuds/whatCD
Summary: Mike Townsend spends an evening reflecting on his career.
Kudos: 7





	Mike Townsend, Season 7 Day 15.

Mike Townsend carefully lines up his knife with the log of dough he spent the last few hours letting rise. KGAR is blasting the Garages game over the radio from his living room. A commentator announced that Marco Stink had been hit by a pitch and advanced onto first. Mike frowned as he lightly scored the top of the loaf. He had some reservations about the way Jaylen had been playing ever since she returned. Had he walked some batters to first a few times in his blaseball career? Plenty - but he hadn't ever been one for violence on the field. Even Allison usually directed her occasional bouts of blood thirst away from the other team.

Mike transferred the dough to a waiting loaf pan. It settled a little misshapen - he had a bad habit of pinching it a little too hard. Maybe that's why he could never quite get breaking balls down. He had been proud of his fastball since he pitched his highschool blaseball team into the state championships, but it had never quite been enough once he made it up to the IBL. He slides the pan into the oven and lifts the door closed. Mike signs and rests his head against the glass, staring at the glow of the pilot light as he tries to focus on the radio.

Bottom of the third inning, runners on first and second, two outs, and Sebastian Telephone coming up to bat for the Steaks. For whatever reason, Sebastian had always had an easier time than his sister at hitting Mike's pitches.

Strike One. Batter looking, fastball down the middle. If that were Mike out there, he thinks he would try to sweat the batter out by throwing far to the outside. Try to bait them into a low hit towards third blase. Safer to send it towards Lang and Luis than hit a grounder to Greer at first.

Strike Two. Batter looking, fastball down the middle. Mike felt a familiar tension begin to take hold as he continued to imagine himself out on the mound. He can still remember the adrenaline rush of being out on the field; the yells of the crowd completely silenced by the second of anticipation as the ball leaves his hands; the despairing crack of the bat; and the absolute exhaustion watching Pedro Davids stroll around the bases, waving to the stands.

The radio commentators cheer in excitement as Sebastian Telephone strikes out swinging at a third fastball placed down the middle. Mike could still see that face Allison gave him as she passed him on her way out to bat during his last game. It had taken him so long to earn her trust as a teammate - as a friend. He still could feel the pain of wishing he could have done more.

Mike pushed the image from his mind as an ad for seasonal work for Jamazon cut through the broadcast. He had broken into a cold sweat without realizing. He looked at the timer on the oven - only about two minutes had passed since he put the bread loaf in, 8:14PM. While he didn't like the idea of turning off the game while it was still scoreless, he needed to take his mind off of blaseball. He walked out to the living room of his apartment and switched off the small red radio he kept on his trophy shelf. It had been a gift from Oli after Mike started coming to his skateboarding lessons. It had felt like a fitting memento between his EVO top 8 finish and 'Skyline Blaseball's Most Improved Player' trophies, even if he hadn't actually progressed very far in actually learning how to skateboard.

It had gotten dark out while Mike had been in the kitchen. He went to the front door and slipped his keys into his short's pocket. While he didn't need to jog anymore to keep in shape for games, he still found it meditative to move his body after so many years of making it a habit. He grabbed the fading navy and crimson varsity jacket and matching Garages hat off the coat rack and slipped them on before taking the long elevator ride down to the streets of Downtown Bellevue below. Mike had long been the 'hometown hero' for Bellevue - a fame that hadn't initially transferred to the pros at first. Mike's highschool team had been villians in Seattle blaseball and that had made a lot of locals write him off, both professionally and morally, before he even started playing. His rocky start in the league hadn't helped much either.

Mike followed a familiar path as he set off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. It hadn't been that long since he was the most idolized man in Seattle splorts so running the same streets made it more likely to for him to get recognized but what could he say, Mike was a creature of habit. He liked doing things in the same way, in the same place. He could feel his thoughts clear as he took a turn around block and onto the wide main road. After another few blocks, he cut another hard left passed some construction out into Downtown Park. He picked up the pace as he eased into the running laps around the large circular path in the center of the park.

"Townsend!"

A loud, deep voice shook his focus after only a few minutes.

"Mike Townsend! Is that you bro? How the hell are you doing!"

Mike felt his eyes twitch as he immediately recognized the voice. He stifled a groan as he turned around to face it.

"Eric."

"That's Mr.Homerun to you, pal" said the tall bespoke man, flashing a plastic smile that didn't quite match the inflection he spoke with. "How long's it been Mike! I feel like I haven't seen you since Highschool."

"I saw you like a month ago dude. We talked for like 20 minutes."

Homerun Eric was probably the worst person Mike could have hoped to run into. He and Eric had won the state championship all those years ago but had parted ways after graduation. Mike couldn't get away from him fast enough - he still hadn't forgiven him for framing Mike for bring weed to the hotel on a road game, that Eric himself had smuggled in and ridiculed Mike for not partaking in. Unfortunately, he came back into Mike's world as a front man for the Garage's sponsorship deal with Jamazon. They have these 'run-ins' far too often for Mike to believe it was ever actually a coincidence.

"That so?" Homerun Eric continues, unphased, "Well bro, how've you been! I heard about what happened with the team kicking you out."

"I'm fi- wait. They didn't 'kick me out', I retired."

"That't not the way I've been hearing it. Word around town is that they used you up to get a better player back," Eric says, voice dripping with arrogance, "And now they've just abandoned you bro. That should have been your limelight and now your just hiding in the shadows."

"You don't get it. You never were much of a team player."

"Hey man, don't say that." he replies incredulously, "I'm actually putting together a new team I think you might be interested in. You ever hear of the Dark-Seattle Corporates?"

"Isn't that the Jamazon company sloftball team?" Mike scoffs.

"You'd think so, but Jamazon is actually putting together a serious pitch to the ILB to be the next expansion team" Homerun Eric boasts, "We've already got Donia Bailey on board, have for a while actually."

"You can't be serious."

"Now we want you man!" Eric says, throwing his arm around Mike. He gestures out his hand in front of them and continues, "Just imagine it! The hometown boys playing together again. We'd get so many local sponsorships."

Mike shrugged the other man's hand off his shoulder. He couldn't imagine a worse fate than playing with this tyrant again.

"I don't think that's such a good idea man."

"Oh come on! Think of the money!" Eric laughs. "Give me one good reason you shouldn't come play for us."

"I uh..." Mike quickly grasps for any excuse to end the conversation as he remembers he still has a loaf waiting in the oven, "I actually uh... Got injured, yeah. Real bad."

"Wait, really?" Eric drops his veneer in genuine surprise.

"Oh yeah. Can't even hold a blaseball anymore." Mike lies, "Like, LITERALLY cannot even touch one."

"Oh. Well. Disappointing as ever, Mike."

**Author's Note:**

> \----  
> Sorry if there are grammar mistakes, I was too tired to edit this after staying up til 9am writing this.  
> Games referenced in the text:  
> https://blase.srv.astr.cc/game/40a3b9a5-912c-4112-8e6e-b37def56b471  
> https://blase.srv.astr.cc/game/34ef84d9-77f7-4b3a-a92d-6d5b9120f80b


End file.
